Aunt Hazel told me she didn’t appreciate my tone.
“What happened to the lottery money?” I asked.
“Greg used part of it to pay off the house, the cars, and credit cards. The balance, more than nine million, was placed in an annuity.”
I had a sudden revelation and immediately began experiencing a sick feeling in my stomach.
Hazel said, “The annuity was supposed to provide a huge monthly check for the rest of Greg and Melanie’s lives. But the way it was structured, the payments ended with their deaths.”
“Can you recall some of the specific provisions?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But the whole business sounds crooked to me.”
“Who can tell me?” I asked.
She eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose Greg’s attorney can give you details.”
She rummaged through her handbag and gave me the business card of one Garrett Unger, attorney at law. I put some money on the table to cover our coffees.
“I’ll have a talk with Unger and let you know if anything develops.”
“We can’t afford to pay you,” she said.
“Consider it a random act of kindness,” I said. “By the way, can you give me the address of the house? I may want to poke around a bit.”
“Now who are you, exactly?” she asked.
“Someone not to be trifled with,” I said.
Hazel gave me a look of concern, and I smiled. “That’s a line from a movie,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
“
“Well it doesn’t sound like a wedding movie to me,” she said. I pulled out my CIA creds and waited for her to
“What’s a five and dime?”
“Like a Woolworths.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m a friend of Addie’s. I met her through Kathleen, one of the volunteers here. I want to help.”
“What’s in it for you?”
I sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I took out my cell phone, called Lou. When he answered, I said, “There was a fire two weeks ago at the home of Greg and Melanie Dawes.” I spelled the last name for him. “Both adults died in the fire. Their twin girls were taken to the burn center at New York-Presbyterian. I need the address of the house that burned down. No, I’m not sure of the state. Try New York, first.” I got our waitress’s attention and asked her to bring me a pencil and paper. By the time she fetched them, I had the address. I hung up and smiled at Aunt Hazel.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Inigo Montoya.”
CHAPTER 11
Valley Road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fi re station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.
“You still alive?” Sal said.
“You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.
“I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.
“Joe DeMeo?” I said.
Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.
“I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got—whatcha call—compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”
“Figure of speech,” I said.
I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”
“You in someone’s attic or what?”
“Rental car.”
“Okay. You prob’ly got a couple hours. But I was you, I’d start checking the rearview anyway.”
